


the road to hell

by Ocearna



Category: Deadpool (Movieverse), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Author likes to chat in the comments, Chaos Ensues, Gen, I just wanted more Peter works at Sister Margaret's fic, Peter gets a job at Sister Margaret's, Swearing, no idea where I'm going with this but anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:54:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27558694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ocearna/pseuds/Ocearna
Summary: Peter needs a job, and a certain bar just happens to be hiring.Weasel is confused but amused enough to go along with it for now.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 72
Collections: Spider-Man and Sister Margaret's





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is based mostly on Tom Holland Spider-Man movies and on the Deadpool movies, plus whatever fanon has stuck in my head from all the fic I've read. there will definitely be inspiration drawn from other "Peter works at Sister Margaret's" fics - I'll try to find them again and link them - just because I absolutely love this trope and have read all the fics I could find and ideas stick, y'know?
> 
> I'm not worrying much about timelines here, but should probably assume Peter is at least a couple years older than in the Holland movies. and we're likely ignoring Endgame and Infinity War, if that ever becomes relevant. and possibly other things...
> 
> also, am not american so will probably miss some americanisms.

“ _How_ did you hear about this job?” Weasel - or at least Peter assumed he was Weasel, based on what he had heard - asked. Since Peter had walked in the door the man had kept switching between confusion to disbelief and, honestly, Peter could understand why. He certainly didn’t look like the kind of person who frequented this kind of place. But, well, he needed a job. And this one would hopefully help _both_ of his lives.

“Uh… on the net?” Peter tried. He really didn’t want to explain all the time he had spent scoping out this area, trying to figure out why so many of the bad guys he ran into on patrols seemed to hang out around here. He also wasn’t sure he wanted to explain the program he had gotten Ned to (begrudgingly) write, which had crawled the net looking for job ads just like this one. Nope, definitely not mentioning either of those things. 

Probably-Weasel rolled his eyes. “I hate that I’m having to ask this, but do you even know what kind of place this is, kid?”

Peter blinked and glanced around at their surroundings - the dingy bar and booths and the dim lighting, even with the small bits of sunlight trying valiantly to break through the dirty as hell windows. “A bar?” he tried, unsure why Weasel was asking.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” the man hissed, turning his back on Peter to move behind the bar. “Nope, I’m not gonna hire you if you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into. I don’t want your death on my conscience, fuck. Get out, and forget you ever heard of this place.”

“Oh,” Peter muttered, suddenly realising what the actual question had been. “You mean the whole… mercenary job dispatch and arms dealing thing?”

Weasel froze, then slowly turned back to face Peter. He stared for a few seconds, then-- 

“The fuck?”

Peter waited a moment to see if he would continue, but when nothing was forthcoming, asked, “What?”

Suddenly Weasel was stalking back around the bar, moving right up into Peter’s space until Peter instinctively took a small step backwards, his spider-sense pinging quietly at the back of his mind.

“How do you know that?” Weasel demanded, his tone low and quiet and suddenly dangerous. “You’re a baby-faced teenager who looks like they've never hurt a damn fly in their life, so how the fuck do you know that?”

Peter gulped but forced himself to stand his ground and keep his voice even. “I know this is the main dispatch centre for mercenary jobs in New York, using a gold card system. I know most of the regulars are either mercenaries, thieves, enforcers or other criminals. I know you also sell weapons - though just the basics, nothing fancy - and occasionally you sell tech.” Gaining confidence as he spoke, Peter’s expression hardened, his tone dropping. “I know that you’re most likely the guy people call Weasel and that you occasionally take on hacking or surveillance jobs yourself. And I know that your last afternoon shift waitress was seriously injured last week when she got caught in the middle of a brawl, and that’s why you need to hire someone new.”

Weasel stared for another minute, and Peter just stared back, refusing to lose the staredown. Then, suddenly, Weasel huffed and his body language relaxed. 

“Fuck it, whatever,” he muttered as he once again headed behind the bar, rooting around for something in the cupboards along the back wall. “What’s your name?”

Peter opened his mouth to answer, then paused. ‘Weasel’ was definitely a nickname or something so… “Ben,” he answered instead. 

That got another huff from Weasel, but this time Peter could hear at least a little bit of amusement in it as he turned back to the bar, sliding some paperwork and a pen onto the counter. “You’re a shitty liar, but maybe you will survive working here after all. This,” he tapped the paperwork, “is your contract. I’m not going to file it anywhere because I don’t pay taxes or any of that bullshit, but I want us to be on the same page here. This outlines your pay and hours and all that crap, plus the… extra requirements of working here.”

Finally stepping up to the bar, Peter reached out to grab the contract and start reading it. Mostly, it looked fairly normal. It asked for Peter’s name and a contact number, though notably it didn’t ask for an address or any kind of ID, and listed hours and rates as Weasel had said. The more interesting part was the clauses--

“Like it says there,” Weasel continued, obviously watching Peter’s face for his reaction, “there are three main rules of working here. You don’t bring any of your shit into my bar, you don't blame me if you get hurt, and you don’t use or communicate anything you hear about the customers. You do, and the consequences will range between losing your job and losing your head. Got it?”

Peter gulped and took a moment to think it over once more. He had expected something like that and had even debated the danger of this kind of job with Ned. Several times. But… he needed a job. And provided he didn’t act on _every_ piece of intel he heard on the job, and only went after the most dangerous customers, then surely he could use what he learned to help with his other job and nobody would catch on, right?

Heart rate spiking at the thought of having to walk that knife’s edge each and every shift, Peter knew he had already made his choice. He didn’t spend almost every night swinging around Queens stopping criminals for no reason, after all. He wanted to help people and make a difference, and this job could help him do that more effectively. And, well, if he was honest at this point he was obviously an adrenaline junky and he knew almost any other job would be boring compared to something like this.

Reaching for the pen, Peter nodded. “Got it,” he replied, his tone hard and determined as he started filling out the paperwork. 

“Well,” Weasel drawled, giving Peter one more once over. “Congratulations, I guess. You start tomorrow. And, kid?”

Peter glanced up. “Yeah?” 

Weasel grinned, wide and wicked and a little bit amused. “Don’t get killed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first time writing these characters/this fandom/etc. etc. how'd I do?
> 
> I have a couple ideas for more chapters for this. may become a collection of random one shots in the 'verse, not sure. hopefully this kickstarts my muse again after a few months of it being dead...
> 
> comments are <3 if you want to leave any!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter’s first shift was… interesting.

Peter’s first shift was… interesting.

Weasel gave him a crash course in alcohol - something Peter didn’t know all that well due to spending his nights webslinging instead of partying - and started pointing out the regulars as they walked in. Some came with fairly normal introductions - “That’s Will, he’s a mechanic” - but others were varying levels of alarming. One of the first people to walk in the door was, “Burke. Send him to me if he asks for a card,” and Peter quickly made a note to stay out of the way of people like that. 

It was almost surprising how varied the customers were too. There were men and women turning tricks, mingling with apparently little worry with obviously dangerous enforcers and mercenaries. There were also those who, at first glance, seemed out of place. Quiet women who kept to themselves and stayed out of the way. Mousy men who slumped into corners away from the crowds. Others Peter couldn’t place based on their face or build or clothes, even with his advanced senses. Sister Margaret’s was a true melting pot, even if it had an obvious bias towards the unlawful. 

Peter loved it by the end of his first hour working there.

The one thing he couldn’t figure out was  _ why _ it worked. In his experience, having this many dangerous people in one room was only this peaceful for so long before weapons were inevitably drawn. And yet, despite having overheard a few threats and knowing brawls were a regular occurrence, it was obvious that something was keeping all these trigger-happy people leashed.  _ By choice _ even, if Peter was reading the room right. He just couldn’t figure out what it was.

It took him another couple of shifts to give in and ask Weasel.

In response, Weasel snorted in laughter, looking up from the ledger he was scribbling in. Peter was trying very hard not to read it, just in case. “You call this behaving?” he asked, waving at where two patrons were about to break a table via “arm wrestling” and at the nearby pool table where the sticks were being used to hit other people just as much as the pool balls.

Peter shrugged, trying to clean a glass with a rag that was more grey than its original white. “I expected a lot more actual violence. Y’know, guns and knives and just… Blood, to be honest?”

Weasel glanced sideways at Peter, questions in his eyes. “You speaking from experience?” he asked, ignoring Peter’s question.

Peter paused in his “cleaning” for a second, trying to decide how to respond without giving too much away. “I’ve seen these kinds of people gather in one place before. That... didn’t go well.” 

“You seen those kinds of gatherings a few times?” Weasel asked, his tone sharp.

“Once or twice,” Peter tried. It was an obvious lie, but thankfully Weasel let it go with nothing more than a roll of his eyes.

“Well,” Weasel drawled, glancing around the room to check who was close enough to overhear them - which was basically no one, thankfully. “the Hellhouse is neutral ground. It’s one of the few permanent neutral areas in New York. Any fucker who comes here and doesn’t tread the line learns quickly. Plus, I don’t give jobs or info to idiots who don’t follow the rules, so most people don’t want to piss me off.”

Peter frowned, turning that over in his head. “So it’s the threat of losing access to a resource? That explains some of it, but it doesn’t seem like enough for some of these guys…”

“There’s also the fact that I can blacklist anyone from most of the other hubs on the east coast,” Weasel added with a smirk. “And word spreads fucking  _ fast _ in our circles. So it’s not just my bar they’d lose access to - it’s possibly every fucking supplier and information broker on this side of the country.  _ And _ some on the other side.”

“That makes a lot more sense,” Peter replied with a lopsided smile. He knew the value of information - that was part of why he went for this job after all. “That would make their lives a lot harder.”

Weasel nodded and moved to leave the bar, obviously done with the conversation and whatever he had been scribbling down. “Of course, I also employ mercenaries,” he threw over his shoulder. “Including Deadpool. No one wants him coming after their fucking ass.”

“Of course,” Peter responded automatically, his brain still focused on what he had - inadvertently - learned about the underground network. 

Then it clicked.

“Wait.  _ Deadpool?!” _


	3. Chapter 3

The first person who asks for Peter’s name is the guy Weasel had introduced as “Will the mechanic”. Peter still doesn’t know any more about the man, but he’s also not sure he wants to considering Will chooses to regularly hang out at Sister Margaret’s. Still, he seems nice enough and none of the people he hangs out with came with warnings from Weasel either, so Peter assumes he’s probably more on the good end of the spectrum of Sister’s Margaret’s customers.

Peter has been working at the bar for almost a week when it happens. Will and his friends turned up earlier than usual and have been drinking more than usual, so they’re getting quite rowdy. They order yet another round of beers for the table, and although Weasel pours the drinks this time he gestures for Peter to take the tray over to them.

As he approaches, Peter can hear the group at the table teasing Will about a big payday and how they expect him to shout them several more rounds yet. Will is frowning at his friends but seems happy enough to play along, joking about how he’ll expect one of them to front up the next time they go drinking then. 

“Speaking of drinks,” Peter interjects as he stops at their table, “here you are.” And then because his default mode when interacting with criminals is ‘sassy’ because of his alter ego, he continues with: “And I hear congratulations are in order, Will! I’ll be expecting good tips tonight.”

Will just stares for a moment, obviously surprised. Some of the group laugh. Peter notices that a couple of the men shut down though - the amusement falls off their faces and their bodies tense up. Peter increases his mental danger rating for those two.

“How’d you know?” Will asks, sounding perplexed and fairly drunk.

Peter grins back, waving a hand vaguely. “Weasel told me a bit about all the regulars,” he explains, hoping the group will think that Weasel told him more than just a few words. “And your friends are loud,” he adds with a wink.

Will’s surprise disappears behind a chuckle as some of the group try to deny that - loudly. One of the men Peter has pegged as dangerous relaxes slightly. Peter has to hide a smirk. Seems like Weasel is the magic word around here, as expected.

“Weasel must like you to be givin’ you info for free,” Will replies with a grin. “Fuck knows he’d never give me nothin’ without payin’.”

“What can I say,” Peter jokes back, complete with fluttering eyelashes, “I’m just that likeable.”

Will guffaws and one of his friends at the end of the bench almost topples off it as he breaks into uncontrollable laughter. Everyone else at the table is amused now, even the two who were wary earlier. 

“You’re either stupid or crazy, bein’ that sassy in here,” Will finally says, moving to offer one hand. “I know you already know, but the name’s Will. Nice ta meet’cha.”

Peter grins back and clasps Will’s hand in a firm shake. Remembering what he told Weasel, and noting that Will didn’t give a surname, he responds, “Ben. I’m not stupid, but crazy is debatable.”

Weasel’s voice sounds over the noise of the bar, yelling at ‘Ben’ to get back to the bar. With a lot more swearing. Peter shrugs in a ‘what can you do way’ and turns to leave. “I better get back to it. See you!”

“Bye, kiddo,” Will replies with amusement. 

As Peter walks away he overhears one of Will’s friends mutter something like, “Can’t wait ‘til the kid meets  _ him _ ,” but it promptly gets shoved into a corner of Peter’s mind as he reaches the bar and Weasel starts barking orders at him.

* * *

A couple of hours later when Kelly appears to take over waiting the tables and Peter is about to leave, a sudden thought comes to him. He mentally debates asking Weasel for a good minute, and his indecision must show on his face because Weasel sighs and grunts out, “What?”

“Eh?” Peter splutters, surprised. 

Weasel rolls his eyes, still scribbling in one of his many notebooks and not looking at Peter at all. Which is why Peter is surprised when he says, “You’ve been fucking staring at me instead of going the fuck home. Obviously, you have a question. So, spit it out before we both go old and wrinkly and gross.”

Peter frowns, considers it for another second, then his mouth takes over. “Will - the mechanic, I don’t know if there’s any other regulars called Will - was celebrating some kind of big payoff. I wondered if you might know something about it? Considering, y’know, you deal in information and--”

“Here’s a tip,” Weasel drawls, finally looking up to pin Peter with a serious expression. “You want to survive working here? Don’t fucking ask questions.”

“But--” Peter says, his brain warring with his mouth. “You said he’s a mechanic?”

Even Peter isn’t sure what he meant by that question, but Weasel seems to get it. The barkeep sighs and goes back to writing. “Another tip,” he responds. “When I say ‘mechanic’, I don’t necessarily mean someone who fucking fixes cars. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they sell car parts to people who don’t want to use normal channels. Sometimes they just make cars fucking disappear.” Weasel scratched through a line of his scribble with a particular vicious stroke of his pen. “Got it?”

Peter’s not sure he has, but he knows when not to push (even if half the time he ignores that warning). “Got it,” he confirms, trying for a genuinely agreeable tone. He’s not sure he pulls it off based on Weasel’s snort. “Thanks, Weasel!” he adds as he finally goes to leave the bar. “Bye!”

He doesn’t get a response, but he doesn’t really expect one. 

* * *

If Spider-Man happens to tail “Will the mechanic” home that night and appears early the next day to follow him to work, well. Nobody from Sister Margaret’s needs to know about that.

(Will has a wife and two adorable daughters, and he works at a mechanic shop that specialises in dealing with cars that were in road accidents, fixing them where possible or writing them off and buying them for parts if not. Will is apparently in charge of the parts inventory.

Peter files that information away in the back of his mind and decides not to look into it any further. He doesn’t want to risk losing his job at Sister’s Margaret’s this early and going after Will would be far too obvious after his questions the night before.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am notoriously bad at naming... anything, so 'Will' may end up renamed at some point. we'll see. also, yes, meet one of the hopefully few OCs I'll have in this. I normally don't like using OCs, but I didn't want to just focus on the obvious characters so -shrug-. next chapter might be another OC, or might be from Weasel's perspective... or might be Peter dealing with his first brawl. haven't decided yet because ofc I don't have any kind of plan for this. XD the only thing I know is that you'll have to wait a couple chapters yet to meet deadpool :P


End file.
